L'Aimant - Chap 55 (M)
by GiuliettaC
Summary: (M-rated version of Chapter 55 of "L'Aimant". For the T-rated version of this chapter - and indeed for all other chapters of this fic - go to the story entitled, simply, "L'Aimant".) A group outing to the flickers proves to be a revelation—in more than one sense. Set after "Broken Souls". November 1944 onwards.


**L'Aimant – Chapter 55(M)**

**Summary:**

(M-rated version of Chapter 55 of "L'Aimant")

A group outing to the flickers proves to be a revelation—in more than one sense.

Set after "Broken Souls". November 1944 onwards.

_Chapter 55: _Back at The Strand Palace, Sam reaps some unexpected benefits of changes in her body.

**Disclaimer:**

The creative rights to the characters and plotlines in "Foyle's War" belong to Anthony Horowitz. This story is a not-for-profit homage to the television series, to the talented actors who bring its characters to life, and to a fascinating era.

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**Author's Notes:**

High time this story had another dose of Foyle/Sam goodness on the cyber page ;o)

This is the **M-rated** version. For the **T-rated version of this chapter**, (and indeed for all other chapters of this fic), go to the story entitled, simply, "**L'Aimant**".

...

Beta'd, collaborated upon (and hauled [with regret] into the realms of a 'T' rating for the main story) by _dancesabove_.

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**_Previously, in "L'Aimant"_**

_Foyle was aware that his body fit against hers in a different way now. Gone was the ease of pressing himself against her lower body, but at the same time her curved abdomen was more pliable, and less an obstacle, than appearances suggested. Embraces were one thing, he thought hazily, but he'd not risk the safety of the child. The last few times he'd taken her to their bed, he'd positioned both of them on their sides._

_Thus Foyle's mind drifted idly over their marital arrangements through the bliss of kissing Sam. _

_Out in the road, a passing taxi papped its horn mischievously, making them start. Foyle craned his neck out of their hidey-hole and glanced self-consciously around, fingering his tie._

_"Listen. I, um, don't want to linger over dinner, how 'bout you?"_

_"Oh, you don't say," she giggled._

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**Chapter 55**

**Monday, 16th April, 1945 – After dinner**

"April showers. Your hat keeps the rain off better than mine," grumbled Sam as they closed the hotel room door behind them. "Where's an umbrella when you need one?"

She unpinned her sodden crimson felt and tossed it onto an upholstered armchair. The dark damask being of an opulent carmine, she reasoned that at least if any dye ran out, there'd be no visible mark. Then, undoing her loose coat, she draped it open over the front of the same chair.

"This had better dry out overnight."

Foyle copied her with his hat and overcoat on the armchair's twin. "No coat stands in these rooms," he observed.

Sam rubbed her arms. "It isn't all that warm in here..."

"Soon fix it, Sweetheart. There are dressing gowns. You could pull one on over your clothes, meantime."

Foyle bent to fumble with the valve on the elaborately cast iron radiator, and was rewarded with a hollow clunk as the heating sprang to life.

"The place'll warm up soon enough."

He rose from stooping and observed Samantha letting down her hair. Arms raised before the canted dressing table mirror, so that her full reflection was captured in the glass, Sam's fingers delved into her updo, plucking out the pins with deft and practised ease. Freed from their restraints, the partially rain-dampened locks tumbled round her shoulders in a warm cascade of golden waves.

Christopher moved up behind her.

"Shake your hair loose," he urged. "I like it when you lift your chin and all the curls fall down between your shoulder blades."

She smiled up at his image in the mirror. "Oh? You've never said."

"Did I need to say? Thought it would be obvious... in other ways."

"Mmm. Sometimes," she admitted, "I'm relieved your lips and fingers have a whole vocabulary of their own that doesn't actually rely on words."

He swept her hair aside, laid bare the graceful curve of her neck, and planted there a reverential kiss. "_All_ of my extremities speak that language round you."

And from his close proximity behind her, Sam felt a nudge of solid confirmation.

Christopher's arms slid round her middle, and his lips brushed her ear.

"Hhhow would you like to, um...?"

The question stalled, met with a giggle from his wife. There was no way to finish such a question; and really no necessity, for he'd begun to ask it two full weeks before. Sam's form had ripened all of a sudden, making it a requirement that he ask, and together they'd begun to seek new answers that fought shy of words. The shyness, strangely, had been more on his side than Samantha's. Faced with Sam's newly ample curves and the piquant sensitivities that her six-month pregnancy brought her, Christopher had applied himself to the delicate business of re-learning his young wife. He found he ached with tenderness around her in those moments. And, more to tell, those moments were a new experience for him. Rosalind's had been a difficult pregnancy, and though she'd needed—and received—his warm, demonstrative affection, no real intimacy between them had taken place in her later months.

No such obstacles presented this time. Sam's eagerness for physicality brought him the delicious onus of discovering fresh avenues to intimacy, uncovering comfortable and undamaging ways to express their love.

Sam turned to welcome him. The belly hindered quite the wished-for closeness. But it couldn't stop the kisses, nor stop the lingering exploratory sweetness of his lips on hers; and Sam sensed his desire for her rise and ignite, as surely as her own for him flowed down and liquefied.

"I'm spinning you a gossamer cocoon," she whispered, offering her passion as a gift. "Wrap you up in silk so snug and soft, you'll never want to leave."

_God, the images she conjured!_ "Spider temptress," murmured Christopher, hungry instinct pushing his body against hers.

Sam's hand slid down, and made the yearned-for contact that her newly burgeoning pregnancy denied him.

"Aren't you curious to find out how it feels?"

He gasped, eyes screwed tightly shut as he fought the sudden, powerful effect of her hand upon him. Her other hand rose to cup his cheek, and instantly she felt his fingers close over hers and his lips press into her palm. It was the gentlest salute, and yet it spoke of passion and respect and emotion more eloquently than the most fervent physical encounter.

"Tell me what you need," he pleaded softly. "Some days I'm so in awe of you, our child inside your body, I hardly know how best to show you what you mean to me..."

Sam melted. "Darling, this is everything I want."

She meant it; Christopher could see it in her soulful gaze. Smiling to himself, he turned his lips into her palm again, and gave the lightest tickle of a lick. He felt her shiver in response, and flicked his tongue again... and then a third time.

"Oh, _my_!" Sam pulled her hand away as if he'd burned her. "Thought that I could stand it, but I can't... you'll make me... goodness!"

He could see it now—exactly what she needed, there and then. He turned her, so her shoulder rested in against his chest, and wrapping one arm round her ripening waist, with his free hand swept up the loose folds of her skirt and found a stocking top. As suspenders were no longer practical across a growing belly, Sam had opted for garters, and the soft flesh of her thigh ballooned a little over the elastic. Playfully, he pinched the small bulb of her inner thigh (and was rewarded with an interested 'Mmmm') before sliding his fingers inside the damp gusset of her underwear. There he found the promised gossamer to ease his way. He could feel the twitching of her flesh beneath his fingers, hear her tiny, fretful, urging noises of approval, and he chuckled through lips pressed against her cheek,

"I'm going to make you spin, you spider. Ohhh, you're going to be easy..."

His middle finger curled, then crooked up inside her, drawing from her a gasp and then a whimper as his thumb found, then rotated on the spot that always craved his touch. The hand around her waist crept higher to engulf her breast, massaging at the hardened nipple underneath her clothing. A bolt of fire shot from the hard bud to her core and Sam let out a squeak of pleasure.

"Is that the noise a spider makes," he teased, "when spinning?"

"Oh God... oh God..." Sam squirmed against his thumb and turned her head toward him, frantically in search of both a haven and an anchor in his lips. Christopher was waiting and his mouth sealed over hers in an unspoken, ardent promise of fulfilment.

"Mmmm. Got you, my spider," Christopher hummed into her lips a moment later, as the hard pad of his thumb moved in a steady circle on the rigid nub of flesh. The bouquet of Sam's excitement rose between them, mixing with her perfume and the soft scent of her hair. His brain reeled from the rich aroma, striking down into his body with a visceral command that had him surging rhythmically against the hard resistance of her hip.

With her every sound and scent and undulation, his own arousal mounted, and he struggled to contain the driving, restless thrumming in his loins. Samantha's senses sharpened with each revolution of his thumb, lifting her beyond herself. Under her husband's dextrous and insistent attentions to her body, she became an entity impaled, manipulated, given over to his power. Her breasts ached for the kneading strokes delivered by his fingers; each inch of her strained into him. Through Sam's now-hazy consciousness there seeped the steady rhythm of his hardness forced against her hip, and her imagination sucked him avidly inside her. The fantasy of joining with him seared itself upon her brain, sending her eyes wide, slackening her jaw.

Christopher's lips parted in unconscious mirroring of Sam's expression. Her shallow panting interspersed with lengthy interruptions in her breathing told him she was close, and so he watched her face intently, hardly daring breathe as he fixated on maintaining the right friction and position to be confident of her release. The silky moisture of her body's arousal would have made this difficult, if not for his anchoring finger.

"Darling," he smiled down on her adoringly, "ahhh, that's lovely. That's my beautiful girl."

Sam turned unfocussed eyes on him. "Christopher... oh, please..." Her hand reached up and gripped the shoulder where his muscles flexed beneath the fabric of his sleeve. She let her hand slide, then dug her fingers hard into the biceps.

Christopher gathered her to him more firmly, predicting that her legs would give, the moment that she peaked.

The tension ramped unbearably inside Sam, so that she forgot even to take a breath; her throat locked as his thumb danced round her nub that all-important final time that tipped her into her release. With a silent cry against his broad lapel, Sam folded her face into him, her body stiffening as the deep, delicious throbs pulsated through her core and radiated out along her limbs. In the next moment, her knees buckled, and her husband's strong arms grasped her, staving off a fall.

Christopher felt the racing heartbeats through her ribcage, and answered them with his own. He felt the throb and gush of her release, and it was all that he could do to keep from finishing himself against her there and then. But the instinct of gluttony held him back from wasting himself in this way. Even as he glowed with the pride of giving sweet satisfaction to his wife, his mind was already laying plans for more.

For several precious moments he held her fast, nuzzling her hair between whispered endearments. "Sweet love. Did you like that? Did you?"

Sam rested blissfully against him, waiting until she felt enough of her strength return to take her full weight on her legs. The climax had left her boneless, and the vaguest tickle of electricity lingered at the base of her spine, prompting the desire to let loose with a little trill of laughter.

This she duly did.

Tucking in his chin, Christopher frowned on her in mock severity. "You found that funny, hmm?"

"Mmm-hmmh."

"Well, pleased to be of service."

The weight of her against him in that moment was perhaps the sweetest burden he had ever borne; but they couldn't stay this way forever. In a supreme effort, he braced his hands on her shoulders and forced himself back from her hip.

"Warmer now. We could peel off a layer or two, don't you think?"

"Sounds lovely."

Sam let him guide her to the comfort of the bed. There he knelt and helped her to remove her shoes, before withdrawing from her to discard his clothes. Sam's eyes followed him with interest as he shook out and then methodically smoothed his suit, before hanging it in the wardrobe.

"Oh, you old romantic," she teased. "And here I fancied that you might just drop it on the floor and ravish me."

"Crossed my mind," he returned with a rapid lop-sided smile, "but then I remembered this is now, officially, my favourite suit." The other still hung in the shed among the garden tools, still exuding a faint _odeur _of part-digested seafood.

Sam grinned as she undid the buttons of her loose blouse, starting at the collar. It was a present from Edith Milner, who had recently expanded into larger things, and Sam was rather fond of it. A smart navy blue, with polka dots, and broad, white lapels at its V-neck, it sported a front shirred below the shoulder yoke for fullness. And it went well with the flared navy skirt she and Georgie had run up from a lucky find of navy cloth at Plummer Roddis in Robertson Street.

Edie had come up trumps for clothes. Sam wasn't, as it happened, much in Edie's company, with the exception of her convalescence after Fielding. But she suspected that her husband had had a quiet word or two with his sergeant in the intervening time, for just two weeks before, Edith had arrived on her doorstep laden with welcome cast-offs.

One cheerful lavender and white smock Sam had inherited that day was so tent-like that she couldn't bring herself to wear it in public, but she had to admit it was considerably more comfortable 'on' than her dresses and tailored skirts. "You look, um... " Christopher had assured her with a stretch of the eyes and an appreciative nod, one morning when she was moping a bit about the loss of her slender figure. Though economical in its expression, this, from Christopher, was praise indeed. But in the past few weeks Samantha had begun to live her pregnancy in ways more predicated on emotion than on the most obvious symptom that required a few sets of maternity clothes.

Now she slipped out of her things, and following Christopher's example, hung them carefully on the sturdy wooden hotel hangers. Her favourite peach art-silk slip was stretched almost to its limit over her belly.

"You know, I think I shall have to stop wearing this soon," she sighed, running her hands unhappily over her stomach before the dressing table mirror. "It's about to pop its seams."

Christopher dropped his cufflinks in a convenient dish emblazoned with the hotel insignia, and, cuffs hanging loose, walked across and wrapped his arms around her, resting his hands over hers on her taut midriff.

"Happy to take you shopping tomorrow afternoon, when I'm done with Miss Pierce. Where's that place Georgie goes on about? Regent Street? Soon get you kitted out. Can't have you going naked, can we? Well not in public, anyway." His eyes flashed with mischief and his tongue poked out and swept along his upper lip.

"Behave!" Sam scolded, pleased beyond all reasonable measure.

_Look at her,_ thought Foyle, imbibing her reflection in the glass. _How women go through this defeats me. _The three months it had taken him to recuperate from bullet wounds seemed insignificant in comparison. Carefully, his hands traced over the bump, and joined beneath it. _This is my child. _He closed his eyes, conjuring a scene from a week before.

Dinner ended, he had been bent over a police manual laid open on the dining table, fighting a touch of sleepiness. Suddenly he heard a startled sound from Sam, who sat across the room from him on the settee, reading. He looked up with curiosity, to read an odd expression on her face: part amusement, part puzzlement, part happiness.

"What is it, Love?"

Sam widened glowing eyes, twisting her mouth in an excited smile. "A kick, I think!"

Three months before, he'd been able to span her waist with his two hands—and how it had amused them both, to make into a ritual of possession that simple gesture of his fingers stretching round her till they almost met. But that evening, he had touched her softly swelling body almost shyly, as if asking for permission from a stranger. She'd smiled and nodded, guiding him to place the flat of his hand on the curve of her belly. At first he'd felt no movement, and watched her face for a sign of something slight for which he might be on the alert. Then Sam's eyes stretched comically at him again, and in response he'd tensed mock-dramatically, which made her laugh aloud. But a second later, something stirred, and he had felt it—not a kick exactly, but perhaps a paddling motion. Open-mouthed, he'd stared at Sam, a slight smile forming. No matter that he'd experienced this twenty-seven years earlier; this was a different lifetime, and the wonder of it caught him with the freshness of a first time.

One week had passed since then. They stood, now, at the hotel dressing table mirror, Christopher nuzzling her neck. "Remember when you felt him kick for the first time?" he reminded her.

"I do, my darling." Oh, the sweetness of her wonderful man, cherishing the beginnings of the child they had created together. Sam blinked back happy tears. "But we don't know for certain it's a boy."

Foyle smiled to himself. He had form for making boys, but it was perhaps untactful to be mentioning such things. "Of course, you're right," he paused to dry-nibble the pale skin behind her ear. "There's no way to be certain."

Sam stretched her neck, opening herself to him. "Silly me," she offered absently, "I was forgetting. Both of yours have been boys."

The words came out as if it mattered not one whit that he had fathered two already… one of them out of wedlock. "Ah, well. Time will tell," she added breezily.

Foyle felt his heart skip. _How did I deserve this woman? _In the next instant, he had her tight against his chest, his cheek pressed to hers.

"God, Sam..."

Leaning back into him, Sam fought off the urge to cry, though it was often hard these days to bite back sudden, inexplicable tears.

And then it was upon them—the familiar hunger to be part of one other. Christopher crossed his hands to cup the fullness of her breasts, and voiced an echo of his earlier question:

"Shall we, Sweetheart? Any preference for how...?"

It felt important to him that Sam should choose. _Her_ body, _her_ delight, and his to serve. And yet, investigator by profession, Foyle had also felt the need to be informed. So he had gone to Guy the moment it grew clear that Sam would not be courting abstinence in her later months.

"I have this... fear of hurting her... the child. I wondered if you might share a few facts? Educate me?" Foyle realised he must have looked pathetic, sitting there in Grindley's surgery, elbows on his knees, hat dangling from his fingers. And then it struck him: Guy was looking rather smart by normal standards. For a start, he'd had a very recent haircut, and his eyes were bright... a _twinkle?_

Foyle closed an eye, sizing up his friend. "Look, Guy. I come here, like an idiot, for practical advice, and find you looking like a man whose mind is not too focussed on the practical."

"Ever the detective," beamed Grindley. "Let's just say my luck's changed."

"Wull, happy to know it. Means there's hope for me in fifteen years' time, then?"

"Doesn't go away, old chap. Things just slow down a bit. And make that thirteen years, you cheeky bugger."

"'F'you say so. And I won't ask what's climbed up your jumper in the last month. Meanwhile, I've a wife at home who seems to think I must know what I'm doing because I've been through this before, when actually..."

He trailed off, his face a picture of helplessness.

Grindley sat back and frowned. "You know, in all my long career, I can't recall a single instance when a man has come to me for tips on marital relations while his wife's expecting. Come to think of it, no man has come to me for guidance _ever_, unless he had a case of clap. Mind you, I've had plenty of women sitting in that chair with veiled—or not so veiled—complaints about their husbands' nasty habits."

Christopher fingered his hat. "I'm, um, a concerned husband. No crime, is it?"

Grindley's tongue did a slow circuit round the front of his teeth. "Not a _crime_, but it's progressive."

Foyle ran an exasperated hand through his thinning hair. "Well, don't make it sound like a dirty word, for Christ's sake. It was hard enough to ask in the first place."

Picking up a pencil, Grindley used the blunt end to scratch his scalp, all the while studying Foyle with a look of affectionate amusement. Eventually his face grew serious.

"All right, old chap. Sam _has_ had a few knocks. Can't blame you for worrying. But it's been long enough now, that you can forget the threat of complications. Your lady wife's built like a bird, but appearances deceive. So put it right out of your mind."

Christopher looked away. Indeed, Sam had shown remarkable resilience.

"Now, then. This pregnancy..." Grindley continued.

He had gone on to reveal that Christopher should picture the child as encased in a firm enclosure of fluid that would act as a safe cushion.

"It's not as if your hand pressing on her stomach would ever allow you to touch the baby through her skin," he explained. "And the same applies with intimate relations. The child lies out of reach and feels nothing. Your wife's got sense enough to tell you if a thing hurts, and you're considerate enough to listen. So what the devil are you fretting about? And listen to me. I've know you many a year, Christopher. Worry travels round with you. Not that you haven't had your reasons, but for pity's sake, don't borrow worry, man."

Wise words indeed. And now, with a nicely softened-up Samantha in his firm embrace, Christopher reviewed the advice his friend had given him; realising the good sense of it, he found the devil in him rising.

He nibbled at his young wife's ear. "Better tell me what you want, and quickly, or I might decide to improvise."

Sam squirmed against him, provoking a groan of pleasure. "That sounds a lovely prospect, Darling. Just let me think a moment..."

Through the mirror, he saw her bite her lip, as if in concentration.

"I think..." she began, archly weighing up the possibilities, "that being married to a policeman, I should like to be arrested and detained."

His lip twitched. Whyever did he agonise about Samantha? She was so obviously the sage in these matters.

"That so, Sam? Such, ah, _things_ can be arranged."

Thus instructed in the execution of his duty, Christopher examined the dressing table mirror for potential. It was angled forwards at its base as far as it would go, with its top edge leaning hard against the wall behind and no further room for movement. This made it, in his view, a stable surface. Releasing her breasts from his soft grasp, he took her hands in his and placed them, palms flat, on the mirror.

"Reach. And spread 'em," he growled into her neck, in his best exaggerated Cagney.

Sam rolled her eyes. "Oh, I can see I shall never live _that _morning down!"

With a giggle and a token wriggle of resistance, she attempted to obey, but quickly found that 'spreading them' was going to be an issue, given the tightness of her slip. She shrugged at him through the mirror.

"So sorry, officer. There seems to be a problem."

"Ah. See what you mean. So much for spontaneity. Let me skin this thing off you, then."

She turned obediently to face him, and with an impish beam, raised her arms above her head like a small child waiting for its vest to be peeled off at bedtime. Christopher eased the slip up and over her face, where, in a moment of mischief, he paused and held her trapped, snatching a kiss through the thin layer of peach silk.

"Oi! Not fair!" came the muffled protest.

"Pardon? Did I hear a voice?" He slid an arm around her back, and helped himself to a mouthful of exposed and ample alabaster cleavage, his free hand reaching up to grasp her wrists, still raised above her head.

Sweeping his tongue under the soft satin of her brassiere, he found the upturned bud of her nipple. It sent a sharp zing through Samantha that made her pull back reflexively. Still, Christopher held her fast, and gave her sensitive areola another hungry lap.

"Christopher Foyle, let me go this instant!" Her muffled indignation spurred on his intrusion for a few delicious moments. Then, letting go her wrists, he finished tugging off the petticoat, and Sam's flushed face emerged, grinning through tousled strands of hair.

"Oh, there you are," he observed nonchalantly, pulling down the cup of her bra and tucking into a meal of freshly puckered nipple.

Sam gazed down on his thinning curls and felt a hitching tenderness. Feeding a hand around his nape, she massaged his scalp in gentle encouragement.

"Mmm. That feels absolutely wonderful."

"Delicious. _And_ off-ration," he mumbled archly, his words tickling the sensitive skin of her breast; and Sam half-flinched with the thrill of it.

"Lovely, but I don't think I can stand much more. Might we... move on to the arrest, d'you think?"

Christopher gave a sharp laugh. "Who's in charge here, Miss Stewart?"

But he released her, and they took a moment to remove their last few bits of clothing, only to meet again facing the mirror. This time they were naked, Christopher's body obscured by Sam's, enfolded in his arms.

"Your skin... mm, so much darker than mine." Sam stroked his forearms, wrapped across the taut ivory skin of her belly. She ran a fingernail through their soft layer of greying chestnut hair, relishing the hard feel of the sinews underneath her fingertips.

"Now, where were we?"

Christopher mustered a stern look. "I was about to detain you at His Majesty's pleasure. Well, actually, at mine. Directly after I've frisked you for secreted evidence."

Sam gave him a wry look through the glass. "No hiding places in my current state."

Lifting his chin, Christopher squinted in appraisal.

"Nnnot sure I'd agree, there."

Before him stood a pale-skinned, soft, full-breasted Venus with a rich, round belly and a thatch of red-gold curls beneath. Silently, he thought her the most enticing sight he'd ever beheld. In truth he felt that every time he saw Sam naked—and equally frequently when she was clothed—but _this_ time... this time the luscious ripeness of her body stirred a bloom of lust inside his brain, and in an instant he was rigid to the point of pain.

He pushed against the roundness of her bottom, lips lingering at her ear, and ordered again (though this time in an urgent whisper), "Spread 'em."

Once again he took her hands and placed them flat upon the surface of the looking glass. Sam leant forwards as he nudged her feet apart.

"Gently does it, now. Easily the loveliest suspect I've had the pleasure of, um, handling." His hands meandered up and down her body, tracing every curve.

Sam felt her inner muscles tighten in anticipation, cueing her body to spin yet more of its gossamer. She shivered under the delicate stroke of his finger, as it drifted down between the cleft of her buttocks and then forwards, seeking entry. By the time the questing digit found its haven, she could barely contain the liquid threads of her arousal, and clamped greedily around it. Soon the first finger was joined by a second, slipping easily inside her primed body and turning to press gently to the fore. Behind her, she could feel the sturdy length of his erection warming her thigh.

Sam gasped, "Oh-god-don't-make-me-wait!"

Lifting hooded eyes to meet hers through the mirror, Christopher weighed an ivory globe in his cupped fingers. With a lazy lick to his upper lip, he coaxed her, "Kiss?" and pinched the nipple lightly.

Emitting a mew of delicious pain, Sam turned her head and locked her mouth to his.

They were still kissing deeply when he bent his knees, and thrust up into her with a greedy, "Ungh! Darling!"

And so the game was on: one hand enveloping her breast, the other folded round her middle, draped around her swollen belly. Samantha's silken grip of welcome caressed his length with pads of glossy satin.

"Christ!" he moaned against her hair, "You feel like heaven."

Sam gaped with the delicious shock of penetration, her own passion-widened eyes staring back at her from depths beyond the mirror's surface. Christopher's head was bowed, lips fastened to the tender spot where neck met shoulder, and she shivered under the soft scrape of his teeth against her skin. Inside, she clenched herself around his firm shaft as his worshipful, slow, inner-stroking thrusts possessed her body.

"Never want to leave," he groaned.

"How c-can you _ever_ leave?" she stammered. "Christopher, you're in me and around me. Y-you're already planted there."

"But not enough. My god, not half enough..."

Yet again their eyes met through the mirror, Christopher's blue orbs unfocussed, blinking slowly in rhythm with his strokes. But Sam's lids were thrown wide, her pupils nearly black with the dilation of arousal and, more particularly, the growing startled realisation that she was about to finish quite spectacularly around him, when they'd barely started.

"Christopher! Christopher!" she panted in half-panic. "Oh lord! I can't help..."

She spasmed round his entering length in a suite of deep, delicious, bone-evaporating waves. The strong throb of it awoke him from the languor of his tender rhythm, spurring him to instant action.

"Coming with you, Love," he growled.

Eyes screwed tight, Christopher quickened his pace, chasing his own climax in an effort to recoup lost ground and match his wife. On jelly legs, supported by her husband and her hands upon the mirror, Sam's body jolted under the transmitted force of every thrust. Christopher's hands had crept down to support her pregnant stomach, leaving her breasts free, and now Sam watched them bobbing through the mirror, unrestrained. She pulled back a hand and found his cheek. "Christopher!" she whispered, "Darling... you mustn't miss... oh hurry!"

Opening his eyes, Christopher was treated to the reflection of his sweetly lustful, newly climaxed wife, full-bellied and full-breasted, bouncing provocatively under his pistoning attentions. "Christ!" he hissed. An instant later he was helpless, and with a soft cry, felt his balls hitch as the distilled essence of his passion burst forth and into her.

"Christ, Sam!" He stifled his cry on the beautiful curve of her neck, and groped blindly upwards for a handful of still-bobbing breast, as if to satisfy himself that it was real. Grateful to have found the soft flesh, he ran his open palm over its nipple in soft circuits, adding a few gentle, parting thrusts with the remains of his rigidity.

"Sweet, clever girl. Gave me a run for my money, hmm?" he whispered, knowing words were superfluous, but speaking them anyway because he loved to stroke her with his voice when he could no longer do so with his body.

And then it came. At first he thought it was an aftershock of her earlier climax. But no—the power of it meant beyond a doubt it _couldn't_ be. He froze, not daring to move, feeling sure that if he did, his weakening erection would shrink out of Sam and leave her empty—which would have been a minor tragedy. Because what was happening around him now was a strong and separate repeat of what he'd felt from her just a few moments before.

"Ahhh!" she nearly screamed in helpless ecstasy. "Can't believe... you've sent me over again..."

He grasped Sam to him with one strong arm, reaching round and down into the red gold curls, in case she needed more. She whimpered excitedly as her hand closed over his, and together they rode her through the last waves of her third climax of the evening.

"Times I wish I were a woman," he chuckled, when at last she'd collapsed back against him. He scooped her around into him, covering her flushed and beaming face with kisses. "Look at you," he smiled. "The cat that got the cream. And then a second saucer. And a third."

Afterwards they had lain on the bed for several minutes to recuperate, legs dangling over the edge in utter exhaustion—too tired even to climb up on the mattress properly. Christopher had even dozed for a short time—he knew not how long, but when he came to, his eyes peeled open to find Samantha on her knees in front of him, showing a renewed interest in what lay between his legs.

"What's this?" Propping himself up on his elbows, he tucked in his chin and raised an amused eyebrow. "What are you up to?"

"Bird watching."

"Sam," he told her patiently, "I'm spent."

"So _you _say."

"Nnnot joking, Sam. The evidence is, um, difficult to hide..." Indeed, he hardly needed to remind her, since most of it was stickily inside, or on Samantha.

"But it's still..." she curled her tongue and gave him a mischievous lick, glancing up artfully to check the effect, "... sensitive?"

"Tssss!" He screwed his eyes tightly shut, and Sam knew she had him. "God! This thing's a danger to itself," he groaned.

"How can it be a danger to itself?" she countered pertly. "Danger to _me,_ yes. Damage done," she patted her belly in pretend annoyance. "But not to you. Wouldn't you like to even up the score?"

"Sam," he pleaded. "I'm exhausted. Shot my bolt. Have pity..."

"Relax, my love," she purred, "I've wrapped you in my silk cocoon, and now... the way of things in nature, this is how it has to be: a spider always eats her mate."

******** TBC ********

**More Author's Notes:**

So we can assume five. I felt I had to stop there because with six, I'd be handing out egg roll.

...

We have _dancesabove _to thank for Samantha's outfits, and the sweet passage with the kick.

**...**

More soon.

**GiuC**


End file.
